


something vile

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Human, Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Trans Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, implied stockholm syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: gabriel has a particular interest in co-worker and fellow news anchor aziraphale. things don't go well
Relationships: Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	something vile

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! this is heavily inspired by specific true crime cases, ill be discussing them in more detail in the end notes. furthermore, none of this is intended to be romantic in any way!! just wanted to get some practice writing from a nasty person's pov, and kinda wrote it all in one day after listening to fiona apples criminal one too many times skskskfhdhf oopsie

"You know," Gabriel starts, half a shot of tequila, and three shots of vodka into the conversation. "I used to watch you on my TV. Every Saturday morning."

Aziraphale makes a sound that cleanses Gabriel's soul of every pitifully feigned laugh he's had to endure from that pure, perfect mouth before. The forced chuckles written into his script couldn't compare to the real deal even if you stripped them to the bone, washed the remnants, bathed them in bleach, and hung them out to dry. No,  _ nothing _ can compare to that sweet, lilted giggle. It's like the chime of a little glass bell, shallow and faint, but so entrancing - always demanding attention.

And Gabriel's more than happy to give him attention.

"Did you really? Dear heavens, I must have been at least a dozen years younger then." Aziraphale says, oblivious to the wine that slips overboard from the edge of his glass as his hand starts to shake. He's had too much to drink tonight, Gabriel thinks. But that's alright. He's in safe hands here. Good hands. Hands he can trust, hands he  _ does _ trust.

Hands that won't ever break that trust.

"No. It's been seventeen years, almost twenty. I was twelve, you were - god, I can't remember, that's so awful of me - you must have been -  _ fuck _ -"

Aziraphale laughs again. "Don't go about pecking on yourself like that, dear. I'm sure I'll recall. Let's see, we're here for my fiftieth birthday today, are we not?"

Gabriel nods. The store bought freezer cake sliced open on his kitchen counter a testament his memory can rely on.

"Then that means... I had to have been thirty-three! What an age, you're bound to be hitting it soon. Still young and fresh for the moment, of course."

"I'd say you're pretty fresh too." Gabriel says. There's too much space on the sofa between them. Even so, as Aziraphale leans in closer, his upper body twisting so as to face him better, there's a tingling in his wrist he can't quite disregard. Like it's begging to be held down, entrapped within his own grasp. Kept from doing something it really shouldn't.

He ignores the feeling dutifully.

"Now, keep that darling mouth shut. You ought to know better than that, you can't go around complimenting old fellows like myself, it's a proper occasion - we'll spend the whole next week thinking about it." Aziraphale says, and he sounds - he talks a bit like Gabriel's grandmother, which is honestly off-putting, kind of killing the whole hard dick soft heart thing he's got going on, but he can ignore that too. It's worth it, worth it to hear himself in a pet name coming from Aziraphale's mouth. 

Darling, he's been darling to him at least five times now.  _ Pet, _ (usually accompanied by a precedential dear, just to keep things comfortable)  _ sweetheart, _ and  _ honeypie  _ are Gabriel's favorites so far. Of course, Aziraphale's like that with everyone. He even lets it slip on air, addressing the audience with all sorts of sentimental, familiar titles. Nobody's ever bothered to stop him. It's too nice to hear, too pleasant a detail to cut down on. And if the ratings are anything to go by, Aziraphale is - and always has been - an audience favorite.

Gabriel doesn't spend too long lingering on that thought, however.

"But I'd watch you. I seriously would, whenever my dad would let me. He thought it was funny I was, like, totally obsessed. My mom used to joke I had a crush on you." he says, focusing on the crook in Aziraphale's smile instead. It looks more like something of a grin at this point. Impish, yet delightfully coy.

"Well? Did you?" Aziraphale asks. He's practically laying down against the sofa cushions now, so stretched out and comfortable Gabriel's tempted to cover his eyes, shroud himself from his modesty.

But he doesn't. He doesn't, because he still has to answer. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

And the throw pillow that meets his face in response is more than worth the wine stains he'll be scrubbing from his carpet tomorrow morning.

-

"Please don't tell anybody! I can't - I know it must seem terribly unusual, I know I must look - must look like a bit of a freak to you. But please, I can't lose this job. It's all I've ever had, since I was twenty I've been here, I don't have a lover, or a family I can return to. I don't have anywhere else to go, this is my home. I can't afford to be thrown away here too."

Aziraphale's desperate monologue washes over Gabriel like cold ice half melted, hammering into his skin still hard enough to hurt, leaving a bitter, wet stain behind. His chest is burning, lungs throbbing, and he hardly even recognizes he hasn't swallowed a single breath within the past forty seconds. 

Forty seconds, forty seconds - it'd only taken forty seconds for Aziraphale to crash on his knees before him, stumbling in his fit of pain, wet and red between his legs. Red, red. Gabriel hadn't even processed the implications at first. He understands now. He understands why Aziraphale is crying. He _ understands. _

He grips Aziraphale by his shoulders, thumbs stroking in revolving circles against the sweet flesh he can feel through his jacket and button-up.

"Your secret's safe with me, yeah? Remember, we're both queers here. Nothing I haven't heard of before. Though, I'll admit, far as I know, I haven't  _ met _ someone like you yet." he says, giving Aziraphale a firm, sturdy pat to his back, and settling him up back on his feet.

"Except for you. I've always known you. Even before I really did."

And Aziraphale smiles. It's safe, it's simple. Small, demure - Gabriel catches in on all the dainty, more feminine features now. He has to wonder what else Aziraphale's blanketing beneath his clothes - thick corduroy sweaters, and satin waistcoats. That'd be enough to properly stifle anyone's chest. 

He doesn't want to see it stifled.

"Of course you have, dear. Now, let's never speak of this again." Aziraphale offers an achy laugh, jostling Gabriel by his arm, and taking his leave. The bathroom door clinks quietly behind him, and Gabriel - Gabriel thanks the sweet Lord up above for such a golden opportunity.

Crowley finds the trash a little bit emptier that day. He isn't as concerned as he should be.

-

"You'll see it if you just bend down a little further - ah, that's right, just there, dear! Thank you ever so kindly, oh, you must be sore from all that time on your knees, can I fetch you some tea?"

Gabriel doesn't like this. 

The goddamn janitor's been fixing their equipment all day. Some bullshit about a pair of broken wires, or maybe they were just jammed in the wrong hole by a newbie employee. He doesn't care, he doesn't care about how they got here, he just wants to know how to make it stop. Aziraphale keeps praising the bastard, and it's sweet, he should see it as sweet, really, it's not Aziraphale's fault he's so naive - 

but he is, he  _ is _ naive. Doesn't he know going about life like that, buttering up every person he meets, is only going to get him some place absolutely horrific? He's endangering himself, being so friendly, so courteous, so assuming that everyone around him has only the best intentions in mind. Gabriel does, of course. He always keeps his intentions lined up and in order, rounded to a sufficiently quiet number. He doesn't need them getting out of hand, after all.

His fingers make a crunching sound as he squeezes them against his palm, hands balled up in angry, pale fists. He knows his face must be going red at this point, he feels flushed, a heat that rips throughout his cheeks, tearing into his skull and  _ pounding _ there. It hurts, it hurts, this _ hurts _ . Why is Aziraphale doing this to him? Why won't he come back, come back home to him? Home is where he belongs, and Gabriel  _ is _ his home. 

He should be with him. And he isn't.

It makes Gabriel want to throttle somebody.

"There we go, all fixed up!" Crowley says, and there's a faint, cheering woo from Aziraphale's end. Gabriel's chest starts to ache, heart thrumming in a steady, softer beat now. He breathes out the heat, breathes out each and every filthy, fermenting urge, and breathes back in Aziraphale's air. The air they're sharing, the air he can taste his angel in. Like lukewarm lake water on his tongue. Or milk to soothe his stomach at twelve in the morning, when everything's foggy and distant, and the whole world feels out of focus.

He has to control himself. Aziraphale hasn't done anything wrong, he knows. He has to be better, try harder, for him. It's just awful, really. Unbearably awful to be kept apart for so long, the life of another branched between them, taking up the space Gabriel's so used to being his own. Aziraphale doesn't belong to him, but he surely belongs to Aziraphale. And what's a possession to do when it's dropped from its owner's hands?

Find a way back inside them, of course. And he can do that. He'll always do that, if only for Aziraphale's sake.

He needs Gabriel more than he knows, after all.

-

Aziraphale's wrist is so smooth clamped between his fingers. His thumb brushing over the slight bump of sweet, pale blue veins. They're so pale, so pale they're nearly daisy white. Gabriel wants to rub against them again, wants to keep stroking until Aziraphale's skin goes red and irritated with it. Maybe sinking his teeth into the tender, thin flesh, and gathering it within his jaw, breaking skin just to nurse at the blood that follows.

But, of course, he doesn't have time for that. He's too busy trying to shove Aziraphale into the back of his car. Which, all things considered, is an easier process than he would've expected it to be. There's no crying, no screaming, or flailing messy limbs. Aziraphale comes quietly, softly, as out of place and questioning as he is in most moments of his life. Perhaps, he just always looks a little bit frightened. 

And he's only a  _ little _ bit frightened right now, of course. Because he trusts Gabriel. Gabriel wouldn't ever do anything to hurt him. It's only a joke, of course. Gabriel had made sure to take him today just to keep his nerves down. April first has never been such a heavily anticipated date on his calendar before.

The car ride is comforting. All steady, evenly paved roads, and Sondheim CD's playing on the car's glitchy stereo. He'd bought them just for the occasion. Aziraphale ought to like them, he thinks. Aziraphale ought to like him.

And he does. He knows he does. He just doesn't know it quite  _ enough, _ not yet.

The car passes over a wretched pothole, and Gabriel curses it for its disruptive nature.

-

"I don't want to hurt you." Gabriel says, having already exhausted the words five times this evening. "I don't want to kill you, or rape you, or anything like that."

His hand fidgets, wrist twitching as he pours milk straight from the bottle into Aziraphale's cereal bowl. It's filled to the brim, but he needs more. He loves the look of white, loves knowing he's giving something to Aziraphale he can't live without. Good, clean, pure white. The perfect backdrop to being nurtured, taken care of. This is all Gabriel's ever wanted for him, all Gabriel's ever had in mind. Keeping him safe, cherished, out of harm's way. All harm but his own, at least. 

All harm but his own.

"How very kind of you. I'll keep that in mind." Aziraphale quips, sounding awfully hurt - which he must be, Gabriel isn't stupid enough to not recognize that. He's been betrayed, Gabriel's betrayed him. But better to be betrayed, than to be ripped apart at the hands of shallow, leering strangers. Better to be held close against a warm chest, by loving, gentle arms, than forced to spread his legs as a result of his own carelessness. So long as he's with Gabriel, that can never happen to him. 

And he's all the more tempting, all the more vulnerable, with that treasure tucked between his thighs. Good lord, what Gabriel would do to get a look at it - just a simple look! He'd fall to his knees and fucking  _ worship _ , just as Aziraphale deserves. He's an altar with no self-awareness of his glory. The cup of Christ escorting itself about as if it were any ordinary household mug.

But Gabriel will make sure he knows just how holy he is. All it'll take is five days. Five days, and then this, whatever this is, will undoubtedly come to its closing act. He knows the cops are closing in, they've had to hop from motel to motel by the hour for the last day and a half. But now, now it seems like they have some quiet, sheltered time to themselves. Gabriel's practically strangling himself with his self-inflicted leash - not yet, he reminds himself. He can't do  _ that _ quite yet, not until Aziraphale wants it.

"I just want to spend time with you. Please, will you eat something for me? It's good. It'll keep you healthy." he says, offering the bowl to Aziraphale. He struggles not to blanch, and Gabriel notices. He notices everything Aziraphale does.

"Come on, I'll spoon feed you. I know it's hard with all the bindings."

Aziraphale's facial expression twists into something inexplicably polite. It's the same face he has on air. Scripted, professional, placating. 

"No, darling, I'm afraid I'm not hungry." he says, smiling just wide enough for Gabriel to see those gorgeous, perfect teeth. Good god, he wants to touch them, wants to get a better look. And he can, he realizes. He can like this. He's got a good excuse, too.

"Yes you are. You're lying." he spits, clutching Aziraphale by his draw, and drawing that smile out with a thumb stretching the corner of his lip. His molars rigid and firm beneath the touch, so smooth, so shiny - like sunlight on murky water. There's something dirty waiting underneath the surface.

Or, perhaps, the only dirty thing here is Gabriel. Absolutely repugnant as he forces cheerios down Aziraphale's throat. Purely vile in form and figure when he shivers at the gag Aziraphale spits out. It sounds so small, so sweetly delicate. He's such a mousy, meek little thing. And Gabriel loves it. He loves knowing he'll tolerate anything, too gentle a soul to fight back. Not out of fear - or, at least, not entirely - but out of  _ sympathy. _

Aziraphale feels bad for him, he must, he can see it in his eyes. Can tell with the little smiles he gives when Gabriel lets his anger slip, marking motel walls with split plaster, and his own knuckles with ruddy bruises.

"Please," Aziraphale gasps after a little while, milk dripping down his chin in the most adorably pathetic way. "please, no more."

And Gabriel listens. He'll adhere to that, he's not as cruel as he'd like to be.

"See, just like I said. I'm not gonna do anything you don't want."

Aziraphale blinks. There's something undeniably damp in his eyes. "Pretty lousy kidnapper then."

And Gabriel - Gabriel starts to think, then. And it's never a good thing when Gabriel starts thinking. Even he's aware of that fact. The mattress creaks with every increment of his weight he lays down upon it, hovering over Aziraphale with a smile that seems to rot where it stays decomposing on his face.

"You're right. I couldn't - I didn't even think about that. How you'd feel afterwards. No, no, no I need you to feel good about yourself. Like you couldn't do anything to stop me. This isn't your fault, yeah? I'm just a fucked up, shitty person. If I hurt you bad enough, you'll know that. I know you will, you're so nice you're gonna blame yourself if I don't do this. So just - sit  _ still _ -"

Aziraphale screams. It's a sharp, sudden sound. Short, and awkwardly stilted. Clearly, he'd only done it in hopes of being found. Catching somebody's attention, alerting them to what's been done, getting  _ help. _

And Gabriel doesn't like this role, he doesn't want to hurt Aziraphale. Really, he's being honest when he says it. But he has to. He has to feel his suffering's worth the aftermath he'll endure. And a  _ rape _ ... a rape would guarantee that.

"Actually, maybe you should struggle. It'll make you feel better in the long run. Like you did everything you could. And I should - I should rough you up, give you proof."

It burns, it physically fucking burns shoving Aziraphale down, letting the palm of his hand inflict severity upon pink, flushing skin. Aziraphale cries out something incomprehensibly pleading, babbling like a wounded child. He's terrified, trying his hardest to wriggle his way away from Gabriel - just like Gabriel wants him to.

"And I should insult you. I think - I think that's what people do, right?" Gabriel says. "You're filthy, a filthy fucking _ pig _ , just look at you - stupid  _ bitch _ ."

The words come out experimental, almost. Hesitant, pausing to slosh each phrase around his tongue, gurgled like mouthwash before he speaks them.

"No, no that's not right." he decides. "Don't wanna leave you insecure, you're really pretty, actually. I think you're really pretty all the time."

And Aziraphale, sucking in the sort of inhale that sounds like slicing through flesh with dull scissors, nods. Aziraphale nods, because what else can he do?

-

"Keep your head down," Gabriel barks. It's the first he's sounded properly angry with Aziraphale since the incident at the motel. They'd never gone any further that night. Gabriel hadn't even bothered to stay in the same bed as Aziraphale, resigning himself to the musty, odd-looking carpeted floor.

"They won't shoot." Aziraphale tells him, still settling down on his stomach, just like Gabriel had told him to. The seat leather sticks to his cheek, damp with sweat - and an indescribable feeling. Something viscous with emotion, sorely discomforting - as he listens to the distant sirens. They're getting louder now. In his haze, he's starting to think they sound like crying. A wailing child, a drowning son. A daughter torn from her mother's hands. A lover left to cradle their dearest in a sleek white hospital bed. 

Red and blue radiates through the car's back window, and Aziraphale slings his arms over his head, presses them tight to his scalp. It's too much, it's too much. The light's intolerably smothering, like being held down with a pillow to his face. Gabriel had tried that. Had almost decided killing him might be a better option than letting him go. A mercy, a pitiful deed for a pitiful man. Aziraphale doesn't want to be pitiful anymore. 

But he's never felt weaker.

"Shit - shit, shit,  _ shitshitshit. _ "

Gabriel slams on the breaks. There's a distinct sense of lightness that takes over Aziraphale's body with the force of their stop. Like he might just start floating, floating, and float right away. The same feeling he gets when he's about to fall asleep, and as soon as his eyes close, he starts to fall. It's an endless, hellish sort of thing. He wonders if the alcohol has anything to do with it. He wonders what else the alcohol might be responsible for.

There's a hand at his collar, and dirt on his knees. Gabriel's pushed him out of the car. The cop cars come to a halt in his peripheral vision, but he can't look at them, can't look at anything but Gabriel. The sand, the dirt, the gravel dug into his palms. Those are all features of a blurry, vacant background, of which Gabriel claims the starring role. He's center stage, a forced perspective. He demands Aziraphale's attention, and he gets it. He gets it.

Leaning down, his breathing's gone heavy and soft. He smiles, cupping Aziraphale's face in his hands. Just like the bathroom. Aziraphale still remembers the bathroom. He can't remember much else  _ but _ the bathroom, and everything else Gabriel's ever done for him.

"Can I have one last goodbye kiss? Please?" Gabriel asks. There's a cacophony of feeling in his wretched, strangled octaves. Aziraphale doesn't dare reply. Aziraphale doesn't do anything at all.

Gabriel takes what he wants anyways. He tugs his hand forwards, jams his lips against his knuckles. It's nothing, it's everything, it's too much and too little, not bad enough to really count, but bad enough to  _ burn _ like Aziraphale's never been burned before.

And when he gets back in that beaten down Sudan, steering off the road, driving aimlessly into some rural, stretching fields, Aziraphale finds he doesn't miss him. He's not going to miss him, either. But his wrists still tingle with the ache of rope burn, and when the car's finally out of sight, he brings his knuckles to his mouth, and gently presses down.

Better to get some closure, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the case of jodi huisentruit, and steve powell's obsession w/ susan powell!! if u want anymore information on these cases id suggest thatchapter's video on jodi, and reignbot's video on susan powell. ty for reading!!


End file.
